


Not Getting Away Easily

by teaceylon



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Happy ending-ish?, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, english not my first language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21932320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaceylon/pseuds/teaceylon
Summary: Young drivers finding healthy / unhealthy way of dealing with their troubles, together.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Comments: 3
Kudos: 59





	Not Getting Away Easily

_“Hello? Max? Sorry for calling at such late hour. No wait I’m not sorry. No just…I don’t know how to explain. Can you come over? In Charles’ place. You know where it is, don’t even try to pretend. Seriously, please come, NOW, yes RIGHT NOW. I really don’t know...of course I know what to do…but I think you should as well…”_

＊ ＊ ＊ ＊

Pierre called in the middle of the night, sounding tired and defeated.

It’s always about Charles, everyone’s favourite nightmare, the adoration that haunted their dreams. Charles has the magic that sends sweet innocence towards people and breaks them into devilish illusions, like his smile curling up in perfect angles, so alluring, as sharp teeth piercing the blood-red lips.

There’s an urgency in Pierre’s voice, and while Max tried to put on his don’t-care attitude, it always fails when it comes to this. He cursed to himself that he hadn’t spotted anything unusual when he was with Charles the last time, which is just 4 hours ago.

It only took Max 10 second to put on proper outfit and dashed out in the dark.

Street lights at 3.00am and late night neon flew pass the window reflection, all colors blends into a liquid palette, too distorted and dreamlike, like all the hours he spent with Charles in secluded hotel rooms.

Hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that the plastic almost cracking, Max had to use all his strength to prevent himself from pushing the pedal too hard, lest accelerate through each turn and dive into the ocean.

They have been repeating this routine for some time now.

Sometimes it’s celebratory, heightened emotions and too much champagne; sometimes it’s after a disappointing race, venting unresolved frustration and fatigue. They’ll always find each other, clashing bodies, biting lips, punches too strong that tore the limbs apart, after hands all over caressing every inch of their skin.

Charles tastes sweet, but what they were doing was definitely not.

He remembered slamming his fingers around the other’s neck, squeezing hard, choking him, as he fucked the Ferrari driver rough and merciless, just how Charles liked it.

He remembered seeing Charles pushed into the mattress, punched bruises around his hips and ribcages, chest heaving and struggling to get air into his lungs — He likes it, seeing Charles utterly broken sent rush of excitement and adrenaline through Max.

And he hated that he loved it, hated that Charles brought out the side of him that he had hidden so well.

Charles was so competitive in fighting for dominance, but also so willing to submit and take up all the violent attempts Max threw on him, almost as if he was asking for it.

“I didn’t want to do this to you. I never wanted to be like…like an offender.” In the dim lights of the hotel room, Max turned away to avoid eye contact with Charles, unable to confront the bruises, the wounds and the scars, the aftermath of the mess they created.

“But you wanted it.” Charles replied quietly, as though he had seen through Max, knowing the Dutchman indeed enjoyed such emotional release.

Max knew he was right. “I shouldn’t.”

“It’s fine. You needed it, and I can take it.” Charles always rested his head on Max’ chest after sex, when they came down from the intense highs. It felt too intimate, like they’re sharing the same heartbeat and he’d temporarily forget they’ve tried to hit and kill each other just moments ago.

And he knew Charles needed it as much as he did. He had never done it with any girlfriends or partners, but Charles had it in him to bare the true and ugly instinct. He would let out the inner killer sadist, trusting Charles to willingly receive and beg for it.

In their own twisted world, they were the matching puzzle for each other.

＊ ＊ ＊ ＊

Max got to the apartment to see Charles lying peaceful, and lifeless, if not for chest moving up and down, only barely, he may as well be sleeping in a coffin.

He looks like a doll, Max thought, as he always does, but this time too calm, too deliberate and too perfect, in no way Charles should be this easy.

“He’s stable, for now.” Pierre looks exasperated, plunging back into a couch beside the bed, where Charles lied dead asleep. “Alcohol with too many sleeping pills. I’ve had him vomited several times, trying to clean things up a bit.”

Max wanted to look surprised, but he was not. He always had a hunch that this was coming, just as he tried to hide his instinct, Charles had his own ugly skeletons in the closet.

“It’s not the first time.” Pierre sighed. “When things got really bad, I used to have to check up on him every few hours. I thought he was more…calm recently, but…”

“He was fine a few hours ago.”

“You never know with Charles.” Pierre pinched between his brows, frustrated. “On good days, he’d be all cheerful, happily complaining about trivial things, and smiles like sunshine; on bad days…he either bites or gives up, and lets everyone has his way on him.”

_did you have your way?_

_was I using him the same?_

Max wanted to ask, but the questions stuck in his throat, and he can barely make a sound.

He remembered Charles smiling with that distant expression, when they lied on the bed, waiting for the adrenaline to die down, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“I never thought about quitting racing.” Charles said, out of the blue, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. “But I’m so tired of it sometimes.”

“Of the race?”

“Not the race itself. But everything about it.” He stopped for a few second, pondering on the appropriate wording. “They wanted me to be the martyr, bearing the cross like a tragic hero, and they wanted to crown me the avenging red prince. They wanted me to play tough, but they love to throw cheating comments here and there; they wanted me to be a polite, good kid, but also the whiner and the self-destructive. They wanted me as the next hope, and they couldn’t wait to burn me to the ground.”

Max couldn’t find words to reply. He did, however, thought for a brief second, what he wanted Charles Leclerc to be. He had a vague grasp of it, but he could not yet firmly define the moments they’ve shared, the shape, the tentative touches, or the exact language of it.

“They wanted me to play whatever role they want to fit me in, the star, cheater, the talented, the diplomat, the manipulative, or whatever.” Charles sounded sad, indifferent, and even matter-or-factly, “They wanted everything from me, so that they can throw me away as easily. I just lost the point of it all.”

“Why do you answer to them?” Max asked.

Charles stopped for a second, then let out a self-mocking laugh, soft and resigned. “Probably because I wanted to please. I wanted to be liked, to be loved.”

“…What do you want to be then?”

“…I don’t know.” Charles propped up from the bed on his elbows, facing Max and smiled. “Perhaps I want to be you. To be Verstappen, the fearless. You don’t change your color, and you’re always just…yourself. And we love you for that.”

“There’s no fun being me.” Max snorted and rolled his eyes, as Charles leaned down and bit on his jaw. “Argh you petty, pretty bitch.”

Charles settling on top of Max, pressing into one another. It was so close. He could hear Charles’ words directly from his voice vibrating against his chest.

“Yeah, that I am.”

He felt Charles smiling against his skin, and out of no where, he thought he could do this for much longer than originally planned, with the brunette’s green-hazel eyes, with that damn dimple, and the curve of his smily lips. Charles felt so warm when he nudged in closer, nose touching and lips connecting, and how he loved that broken, yearning voice breathing out _‘Max’_ , ever so softly and desperately.

＊ ＊ ＊ ＊

Charles in white sheets looks so serene, so at ease with himself and so cold.

Max used to make fun of the Monegasque that he should focus on being a model or a grid boy (god knows how many people would drool over Charles Leclerc the gird mascot in all the costumes one can imagine). And now, like a ceramic doll Charles lie dead asleep and motionless. It felt surreal.

This Charles isn’t the one who would hit and fight on / off track, not the one who'd sweet moan in bed when Max tried to choke him, nor the one who with the mischievous smiles when he gently tugged the fringes away from his forehead.

This Charles, expressionless as if content, like an ignorant Disney prince, is too perfect to be true.

Somewhere inside himself, Max could feel loneliness, anger, and also excitement from a sudden realization burning like a pool of bubbling black larva.

Max felt an itching thrill climbing up his scalp, a stark contrast to the calm Charles in bed. And it even felt encouraging.

He would not forgive Charles, for after what they’ve shared, how they’ve bared the raw self to one another, he went for the easy way out, alone.

He couldn’t wait to wake Charles up, and tear him apart again. He couldn’t wait to punch Charles in the face, to fuck him out of his brains, and to choke on his neck, until those beautiful green-hazel eyes water up, and those lips once again call out his name in the broken tone _‘Max.’_

Charles, the one who coaxed out the nature he wanted to bury forever, the one who seduced him into the trap; the one who knew how to tickle and to enrage Max, the one who shared his insecurity and vulnerability, the one who would take it all proudly like no one else — the one who he hated that he loved so much.

_How dare you abandon your partner in crime_ — not the most accurate description, but something similar, he thought to himself.

In his poor imagination, they’re two animals, to whom fighting and snuggling means similar things. They would bite and tear each other to pieces, and curl up together, licking and healing the other’s injuries, sneaking in a couple of kisses and love bites.

Perhaps in another life, they would be different.

But not in this one. So not with this porcelain doll Charles for now or ever.

“When will he wake up?”

He held up Charles’ cuff, and could not conceal a smile seeing the slight print he left on the wrist. It hasn’t developed into a proper mark, but boy would he want to see the scar.

“Probably half a day, or even a full day.” Pierre placed a palm over his face, too tired and worn out. “I’m so scared sometimes. What if, I mean, what if he doesn’t wake up……”

“Not that easy.”

Max found himself smiling, like he has finally gotten to grasp the strings between him and Charles. It’s fragile, but he’s not letting go.

His other hand pulling at Charles’ shirt collar, revealing a light-purple, hand-print patch of skin, where he tried to gag Charles earlier. He couldn’t help tracing his fingers along the mark, almost reverently.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Pierre tensing up a bit, but he wasn’t going to add any pressure on the hand, not now.

“He's not getting away that easily. Not on my watch.”

_You’re not having the easy way out, without me._

Through gritted teeth, he can feel his jaw tensed til it hurts, and his voice a mixture of anger, resentment, and excitement.

 _Next time, next time_ , he would whisper this into Charles’ ears, when he’s about to close his fingers on that pale neck, where he would bite and kiss him all at once.

“He either lives or dies with me.”

And he meant that sincerely. He felt like kissing Charles, if not for the cliche of the sleeping princess, he’d probably bit his neck, just so that he wouldn’t forget this moment.

They remained silent for a long time. Charles lied there, unmoving, breathing so light as if it’d disappear any minute; with Pierre staring, and Max mesmerised in the moment.

No one moved, and the air stilled. They were waiting for Charles to miraculously wake up and laugh at the joke.

“Fuck.” Only until Pierre couldn’t hold it in anymore, he finally let out a hopeless sigh, almost mocking, but somehow relieved.

”That’s probably the most romantic threat I’ve ever heard.”

**Author's Note:**

> A change of music completely changed how I write. Argh this turned out quite differently than I expected…it was originally a spin-off idea from the piece I was working on, and somehow it went in one go, so here it is.  
> (I have a habit to just write down things that crossed my mind, so it came out very much like mumbling a lot of the times).
> 
> Throughout this season, my ideas about these two changed quite a lot.  
> But still, I just want them to have a good time together. And hopefully more Max/Charles to come! (fanfic and track action-wise, both! :))


End file.
